Author: Kim du Toit

Dutch Music

Culture

Warning note: following all the links in this post could take up most of your Saturday, so hold off until the very last one; then, if you want, listen to the others.

I’ve been a fan of the Dutch music scene ever since I first became aware of Focus — I know Golden Earring preceded them, but GE was just a Euro version of Grand Funk Railroad so nevermind.

It’s no surprise that a country which gave us Holbein, Vermeer and Rembrandt should also produce outstanding musical talent, but what astonishes me is that so small a population can churn out these musicians by the bucket load.

For a while I was enchanted by Epica — okay, maybe flame-haired singer Simone Symons had much to do with it:

…but I’ve come to enjoy that style of music a great deal.

Now before anyone starts in on me, I will acknowledge that modern Dutch bands are kinda stereotypical: a bunch of dudes with long hair dressed all in black, with plentiful rock-star posing / hair-tossing and Serious Expressions on their faces. (No eclectic neo-classical Thijs van Leer types in their ranks, oh no.) And the music is similarly formulaic: epic fantasy storytelling set to metal, with a powerful female singer.

Then, via one of the kids, came The Gentle Storm. Basically, this is one project of many produced by musical genius Arjen Lucassen (now he is like the multi-talented Thijs van Leer from Focus) and his accomplice, the astonishing singer/lyricist Anneke van Giersbergen. Most of their stuff is like all the other Dutch bands — I will grant that it’s an acquired taste — but the whole point of this post was to bring to your attention the brilliantfantasticamazing song Heart of Amsterdam. The first twenty seconds are standard Dutch-metal stuff, with a few unusual classical instruments thrown in, no synthesizers for our Arjen  — and then comes Anneke, in glorious Technicolor. Watch and enjoy this ode to one of my favorite cities in the world. I must have listened to the song over a hundred times since I first heard it.

Of course, I enjoy the thing even more with the knowledge that the term “gentle storm” is the Edwardian euphemism for an orgasm. I wonder if our Dutch friends know that.

Black Despair

Grief & Loss

I lost it last night.

As I’ve been emptying out the house, I’ve come across all sorts of things which remind me of Connie; photos of a younger version whom, tragically, I never knew, old awards for some job excellence, thank-you letters from grateful clients and so on. Some of the things elicit a wry smile, some a strangled sob, and most a simple, “Oh, sweetheart.”

The kitchen has been the absolute worst. You see, amongst all her other achievements, Connie was a superlative cook, a cross between artist and artisan, and any of my Readers fortunate to have been guests at our dinner table will attest to that fact. Her spice “rack” (two overhead cupboards’ worth) overflowed onto the counter into four actual racks, and her utensils, from Le Creuset pots and pans to a wooden tortilla press — you don’t think we bought tortillas, do you? — were like the woodworking tools used by master craftsman Norm Abram: a means to create works of peerless quality. And unlike so many women, cooking for her was never a chore but a delight, just as long as she wasn’t asked to make prosaic stuff like sandwiches (I was deputized for that).

Back when I was working in Corporate America, I was in a meeting in my office with two of my subordinates when I got a call from my secretary: “It’s Connie; she apologizes but she has an important question for you.”
So I hit the speakerphone and said, “You’re on speaker, and I have Jim and Kenny here with me, so keep it clean.”
She laughed. “What do you want for dinner tonight?”
“I dunno; maybe just a salami sandwich?”
Icy silence. Then: “Hmph. Your choices are: Beef Burgundy or Banana Chicken Curry.”
“Oh. Okay, the curry sounds good,” and after the farewells I hung up, to see two pairs of eyes staring at me in astonishment.
“What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion.”
“You mean, she does this — cooks you this kind of meal — all the time?”
“Pretty much every night, unless we’re going out. But she doesn’t like to go to restaurants unless she’s tired.”
“Why?”
“She says she doesn’t like the way restaurants — even the good ones — screw up the food.”
“My God.”

So last night was Kitchen Night. I got about halfway through — tossed the spices which neither I nor the kids wanted or needed — but when I got to the copper saucepans,  crepe cookers and ebelskiver pans, I ran into a wall. “I can’t do this, sweetheart… I just can’t do this anymore. It hurts too much,” and I collapsed against the counter, weeping like a little girl. If the earth had opened up and swallowed me at that moment, I would have welcomed it.

The kids (Daughter and BF along with Son&Heir and Canucki-Girlfriend) will finish the kitchen today and tomorrow. Without them, I would have just left the house, never to return. As it is, I could barely write this blogpost.

Sorry to unload on y’all, but I did warn you that there’d be days like this. Today, the isolation is not so splendid.

All We Could Do Was Scream

The Gun Thing

…because, you see, Germans aren’t allowed to carry guns unless they are police officers.

Here’s the whole story, but all you need to read is the last few lines:

Frantic footage from a smartphone has captured the moment terrified passengers fled the scene, with many screaming as they sprinted away from the station.
Recalling the terrifying moment the axeman struck, a witness said: “I have never seen anything like that I my life.
“He suddenly jumped out of the train and started to strike at people with an axe – just about two metres away from to us.
“But no one could help, it was impossible. We just stopped and screamed.”

Please, someone make the comment about how this response is morally better than an armed citizen shooting the asshole in the face. Then explain that to the 13-year-old girl who nearly had her arm hacked off.

Update: The comments to this post brought back to mind a comment I made at Insty’s place a while back.

I don’t need the government to tell me how to protect myself, my family and my community. I especially don’t need the government to tell me why I shouldn’t protect myself, my family and my community (and to run away like a goddamned coward).
I’m armed, well trained and ready to die to protect the above against criminal aggression. I’m the “citizen militia”, the “gun hiding behind every blade of grass”, and I’m the situation all criminals fear when they’re about to perpetrate their evil deeds.
If government wants to help me in my endeavor, well and good. If they won’t or can’t, they need to stay out of my goddamned way while I go about my business.

Never Mind The Dead Bishop On The Landing

General

How about the dead shark in a Walmart parking lot?

A St. Johns County sheriff’s deputy responded to a strange call Friday afternoon when an assistant manager at Walmart on U.S. 1 called authorities saying she had found a 4-5 foot dead shark in the store’s parking lot.

Now this did happen in Floriduh, so we should not be surprised. (Universal explanation for strange shit happening in the Sunshine State: “It’s Florida, dude.”) But here’s what intrigues me:

The deputy called officers from the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission who arrived at the lot and removed the shark for disposal.

How does one dispose of a dead shark on land?  I call for suggestions in Comments, the funnier, the better.

 

Men, Explained

Guy Stuff

Yeah, maybe. On the other hand, there are thousands of buffalo to be had, but there’s only one fine piece of lioness poontang in the immediate vicinity. And as this is a kitchen metaphor: let’s face it, when she’s wearing that lil’ apron, standing there all hot and bothered, maybe a little messy with flour all over her, ponytail working itself loose, maybe a stray strand of hair falling down her cheek…

…I can kinda see our guy’s motivation.